1914 Christmas
by Goldleaf83
Summary: A moment of peace in a world at war.
1. Chapter 1: Christmas Eve

_Author's Note: This is a Christmas story from Schultz's perspective, when he was a young soldier in World War I. It is a prequel to Chapter 2 of my story "1916," giving a fully fleshed-out version of an event briefly referenced in that story. It should stand alone just fine if you haven't read that one._

ooOoo

 _Christmas Eve, 1914_

 _Leutnant_ Fromm had started it, jumping down from the ledge where he had been looking out over No Man's Land from the Maxim gun placement in the dim light of evening. He leaned against the trench wall, pulled out and then lit a cigar from his coat pocket, one from his _Kaiserliche_ , the gifts of tobacco that the Kaiser had sent each officer and enlisted man. In the cold air, the smoke from the cigar mixed with the vapor of his breath.

"Hartmann is still hanging on the wires," he said conversationally. Hans and the others looked away as they stamped their feet on the duckboards, trying to keep warm. Hartmann had died the last day of their previous rotation to the front, during a night patrol to investigate the British trenches when orders had come to see if a patrol could tell if the British were tunneling. The other four members of the patrol had made it back, though Dohman had been hit in the leg and had to be dragged back. He was in the hospital, and had lost the leg. No one since then had been willing to pay the likely costs to retrieve Hartmann's body. He had several other dead comrades to keep him company out there.

At least since the weather had turned icy cold, they couldn't smell him.

"There's also some Tommies from their last attack," Fromm added.

"So?" growled Maurer, ignoring Fromm's rank as he usually did. Fromm was easy going for an officer—and Maurer was too good a sniper for Fromm to discipline with any kind of severity. He was the one responsible for several of those enemy soldiers Fromm had just mentioned.

Just then Gutermuth came down the trench, from the dugout. He was a small man—well, _boy_ was probably more accurate, since Hans was sure he had lied about his age to get into the army. Gutermuth couldn't be more than seventeen—and in Hans's private opinion was most likely sixteen. They all looked after him as the pet of the unit, a role the boy found useful and annoying by turns, depending on how grown up he was feeling. At the moment Gutermuth had a big smile on his face. "I have finished them!" he announced, holding out three carefully balanced little _Tannenbaum_ which had arrived with the day's mail. Candles decorated them, deftly attached to the branches. "We can light them and have a proper _Weinachten_ celebration," he added cheerfully. "Mama sent me these for us all to enjoy."

"Did she send _Marzipan_ too?" Maurer usually had a soft spot for Gutermuth, but his sarcasm tonight suggested he was determined to share his bad mood with everyone.

"Yes, she did," Gutermuth answered defiantly. "And I know Landau has _Stollen_ and Schultz has _Lebkuchen_ from yesterday's mail."

Hans sighed at the thought of sharing the precious gingerbread from his sister Klara. It tasted of home, and it wouldn't have lasted him long eating it just by himself. But when Gutermuth looked at him with such faith, keeping the treat to himself was impossible. Besides, Mutti would tell him to share—although maybe he could put a little aside just for himself.

"You got a package too," Gutermuth challenged Maurer, looking up at him.

"Fine. You can add my wife's _Basler Läckerli_ to the mix," Maurer said after a moment with a shrug.

Fromm smiled. "And I shall contribute a bit of schnapps for everyone—though not too much, for front-line soldiers on duty!"

As darkness fell, they lit the little candles on the little trees and ate their sweets, sitting on the ledge of the trench and looking up at the starry sky. Gutermuth started to sing: " _O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, / wie treu sind deine Blätter!_ " They all joined in, singing all the verses together.

Then, to their complete surprise, they heard the same tune but with different words echoing from the British trench to the south.

"I wonder what they're saying in their words," Gutermuth mused.

"It is similar to our song. ' _Christmas Tree_ ,'" Fromm repeated the two words carefully in English for them, "is what they call the _Weihnachtsbaum_. So they are singing what we mean by ' _O Tannenbaum_.'"

"Poor Tommies. I'll bet no one sent them a tree." Guthermuth's eyes widened. "We should share ours!" He hopped up, picking one little pine tree up.

"Young idiot! You'll get yourself picked off by a sniper!" Maurer jumped up too, as did Fromm.

" _Nicht schießen!_ " bellowed Fromm southwards across No Man's Land as Guthermuth reached up to set the tree on the rim of the trench, carefully keeping his head below the lip. Fromm switched to words they didn't understand, shouting even louder in English: " _Do not shoot! We will not shoot!_ " Then he added, " _Merry Christmas!_ "

The little tree perched on the edge of the trench, its light a perfect target. They all kept crouched down.

No bullets came. Instead, a reply in English:

" _We will not shoot_."

Hans and the rest of them looked at Fromm expectantly.

"They say they will not fire on us."

Gutermuth smiled broadly. "Hand me up another tree." He placed one pine carefully, a few feet to the left from the first, and then the second to its right, all close enough that the golden light of the candles from each tree helped illuminate the others.

Gutermuth hopped back down, admiring his work. Fortunately, the night had little wind and the candles still burned. "One for Josef, one for Maria, and one for the Christ child," he smiled impishly. Everyone laughed. "Let's sing another carol for the English. How about ' _Stille Nacht_ '? The night is quiet for once!"

So they began to sing the carol, and on the second verse voices on the other side joined in, with different words but the same sentiment.

And so it went for several hours, the men of both sides trading carols as the stars shone down on the trenches, till the waxing quarter moon eclipsed all but the brighter ones with its gathering light. Frost crystals fluffed the barbed wire and glittered in the moon's cold radiance, and finally—except for the watchful guards—all the men wrapped themselves in sleep.

ooOoo

 _Author's Note_ : There will be two more sections, one for Christmas Day, and a coda the day after. I haven't been writing much this year (I have a big writing project at work, and writing hasn't felt like recreation), but I have managed to finish this story, which I wrote most of last year.

The events in the story are based on research I did concerning the Christmas Truce of 1914. The small Tannenbaum, lit by candles and put on the parapets of the trenches, charmed the British on the other side of No Man's Land. In many places the opposing lines were close enough that men from both sides could, and did, sing Christmas carols to each other in their respective languages. The weather and moon are historically correct too: it was very cold and clear in France on Christmas Eve of 1914.

Language Note: German spoken by Germans to Germans is usually represented as ordinary English in plain type, though I've added in italics some actual German vocabulary for cultural flavor. I have put actual German words spoken as German in italics. Spoken English is also italicized as a sign that it is foreign to Schultz. I've tried to be consistent along these lines, but it was complicated. I hope the system makes sense to readers.

 _German foods and phrases:_

 _Marzipan:_ a confection made of sugar or honey mixed with finely ground almonds, often molded into fancy shapes.

 _Stollen:_ a fruit bread containing dried and/or candied fruit, nuts, and spices, often covered with powdered sugar or icing sugar, commonly made and eaten for Christmas in Germany.

 _Lebkuchen:_ a sweet pastry, similar to gingerbread, popular at Christmas in Germany. Most commonly baked in round shapes, but also the source of the gingerbread house tradition.

 _Basler Läckerli_ _:_ a hard spice cookie (or biscuit in British parlance) originating in Switzerland, made of honey, hazelnuts, almonds, candied fruit peel, and cherry brandy.

 _"_ _O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, / wie treu sind deine Blätter_ _":_ Literally, the first lines of the carol translate thus: "O pine tree, O pine tree / How loyal are your leaves/needles" (a reference to how they stay green year round). There are several versions whose lyrics differ slightly that are commonly used in English. As best I can tell, both _Tannenbaum_ and _Weihnachtsbaum_ are used to refer to Christmas trees.

 _Nicht schießen_ _:_ Do not shoot.

 _Stille Nacht_ _:_ Silent Night. The famous carol's original lyrics were in German.


	2. Chapter 2: Christmas Day

_Christmas Day, 1914_

The next morning, Fromm was up gazing across No Man's Land yet again, as all the men greeted each other cheerfully with " _Fröhliche Weihnachten_ " in addition to the usual " _Guten Morgen_ "—and without any sarcastic comments on the goodness of the morning, for once.

Hans was trying to figure out what else was different this morning: he kept turning his head, listening for . . . that was it! There was no gunfire. No cannons or artillery of any kind. For two months in the trenches he had heard the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight, the staccato of machine guns. But now? Just silence. Even occasionally a bird's rare chirp.

Blessed quiet, for the only time he could remember since they had dug the trench.

A few hours later, after all the usual morning duties, Fromm abruptly announced, "I am going to ask the British over there for a truce. It is Christmas. The least we can do is bury the dead. If they will agree to that on any day, today will be the day."

Hans privately agreed with that logic. And yes, he did want decent burial for Hartmann, who had been a good friend, though inwardly he shrank from entering No Man's Land and the chore of collecting his body and those of the others. How different this Christmas was from earlier ones, before he was in the army! If anyone had told him a year ago today that he would spend the next Christmas collecting dead bodies for burial, he would not have been able to understand it. How much the war had changed him, and all of them. . . .

Fromm had disappeared into the dugout and emerged with a towel. He clambered up on the ledge, just at the point where the _Tannenbaum_ perched. Josef and Maria had fallen over at some point in the night but the Christ Child tree remained upright. He set the two fallen ones upright, then cautiously he held up the towel. " _Do not shoot! Truce! Merry Christmas!_ " he called out in English across the waste land, then daringly raised his head up.

" _Truce!_ " someone on the other side called back. " _If you do not shoot, we will not shoot!_ "

"What did he say?" demanded Hans, seconded by all the others. Fromm explained, then boosted himself up over the parapet, standing courageously right where a sniper could pick him off.

Nothing happened. Silence reigned over the battlefield.

Fromm looked back down. "Who will come with me? I need two of you."

"I will! I want to see what an Englishman looks like!" Gutermuth jumped up. "Give me a boost, Schultz!"

Hans sighed, but cupped his hands and boosted the youngster up. He noticed that a spider had spun a web overnight on the little center tree. _A sign of good luck_ , he thought to himself.

"I'll go too," growled Maurer, but Hans put his hand on his chest.

" _Nein_ , we need you and your skill. I will go, to watch over the lieutenant and the boy. You keep an eye on all of us."

Maurer frowned but nodded, then offered Hans the same boost up to the parapet. Hans crawled onto his knees on the frozen mud, then carefully stood. He could see a British officer and two others in the distance at the other side. It felt very odd to be standing up in full daylight on this forbidden open ground, not crawling on his belly or crouching in the dark.

Maurer had taken up position with his rifle, ready to shoot anyone who shot at them. "Do not worry, Maurer," Fromm assured them. "The officer gave his word. We will be safe. And Gutermuth, the English will look like us, but in khaki uniforms instead of gray."

"That will be disappointing," the young soldier murmured as they started south, across No Man's Land.

Slowly they picked their way across the frozen ground, carefully navigating the barbed wire and shell holes that pocked what had been a productive oat field in the early fall, when they had dug in. Patches of dried-out unharvested grain still endured in places, not yet scythed by shells. They passed one of the few surviving trees at the edge of the field. Hans remembered a friend of his stationed in the nearby artillery telling him that they had been trying not to take out that tree, since it provided a useful point of reference. In the distance, Hans could see the buildings from a village behind the British lines. He kept an eye out for bodies that they would need to retrieve—as well as remaining watchful for sheltered spots in case the enemy fired on them.

All the time, the British trio got closer.

Finally the two sides met in the middle. _Leutnant_ Fromm saluted the British officer—a captain, Hans thought, also saluting him. The British officer returned their salute. Fromm introduced himself, then the captain said his own name: Middleton. Then Fromm spoke in English. Hans could not understand what he was saying, although he recognized among the opening words the " _Christmas_ " that Fromm had taught them last night. A few other words sounded like German words too, if oddly pronounced, and Hans wished he spoke the language.

The English officer offered his hand, and he and Fromm exchanged a handshake, both clicking their heels with a little bow afterwards. Then Fromm turned and gestured for Hans and Gutermuth to follow him back.

"We will assemble a party and find all the bodies we can in this section. If we find one from their side, we will signal them to come to collect it; they will do the same for us. He has agreed that we will not shoot until midnight," he informed them.

 _So, only a short reprieve_ , Hans thought. _But it is much better than nothing. This is a day none of us will die, and those are in short supply when we have been rotated up to the front_. Looking over at Gutermuth, who was telling an amused Fromm his impressions of the English, he was glad that he would not have to worry about either Gutermuth or himself that day—or any of his other comrades.

Back at their own trench, Fromm organized a detail of men with the necessary equipment, then they all climbed up, one by one, over the top. The British were also climbing out. For a moment Hans paused, watching them as one distant figure knelt down by a stiff form not far from the British side. A soldier who had nearly made it home from a mission, like Hartmann? Or one that had died moving forward in an outright attack? From the stillness of the kneeling soldier, Hans guessed the dead man had meant something to him.

As Hartmann had meant to him. To all of them. Always ready with a warm smile and a joke; always sharing whatever sweets his mother, sisters, and sweetheart sent; always willing to take on extra duty and let a friend rest. Quietly, they gathered his stiff, frozen body up to take back for burial, cutting him free of the barbed wire that had trapped and then cradled him, then repairing the wire carefully. Once Hartmann was being borne back to the trench, Hans walked the field, flagging the bodies—or parts of them—that he found for the burial parties to come and collect.

"I have found three Englishmen," he reported to Fromm.

"How close to our trench?"

"About 50 meters."

"Far enough. I do not want them close enough to get a good look." Fromm and Hans exchanged a knowing look—the mission trying to get such a look at the British trench was the one that had cost Hartmann his life. "Come with me, Schultz. We will let _Hauptmann_ Middleton know, so that he and his men can recover them. They may prefer that we not disturb their rest."

"Rest" seemed a word vastly out of place to describe the condition of the dead men, to Hans at least. But he dutifully followed his captain across the shell-pocked land once again, each of them carefully holding their hands out from their sides, to ensure that the English understood they were not a threat. Hans suspected that some British sniper had them in his sights nonetheless, just as Maurer was keeping an eye on the English troops.

After another exchange of formalities they trekked back across, leading a team of British soldiers to the sites Hans had identified. Hans watched as the British gathered up the last one on a stretcher, covering the body with a blanket. One man holding the back end slipped, and Hans lunged forward, catching the pole before the stretcher dumped its still occupant back onto the ground.

" _Thank you_ ," said the soldier, a smallish fellow with a light brown mustache.

Hans caught the meaning—it sounded a bit like " _danke_." And what else would the man be saying when Hans had just helped him out?

" _Bitte_ ," he answered politely, then added, " _Ein freund?_ ", pointing to the body they carried as he fell into step with them, escorting them back towards their side.

It was the Englishman's turn to be puzzled. "' _Freund_ '? Ah, ' _friend_ '?"

Hans nodded; the word sounded similar.

The Englishman shook his head. " _No_ —er, _nein_?"

Hans nodded again, to reward the man's attempt.

" _Any friends—freunds—of yours out here?_ " the Englishman asked, turning his head from side to side.

Guessing at the meaning of the words from the gesture, Hans nodded. " _Ja_." He waved his hand back towards where they had picked up Hartmann.

" _Bloody war_ ," growled the other, shaking his head.

Hans wasn't at all sure what it meant, but the tone sounded both sad and angry. So he just nodded once more.

As they neared the other British, several of them came over. One said something to the man Hans had been talking with and took his place, carrying the stretcher with its sad blanketed burden off toward their own trench. The soldier Hans had spoken with looked over at him and said with a wry smile and a tone that sounded ironic, " _Merry Christmas_."

Well, Hans knew those two English words by now. So he replied carefully, trying to get the words right, " _Merry Christmas_." Then he added, smiling back, " _Und Fröhliche Weihnachten!_ "

To his surprise the other man laughed and reached for the pocket of his great coat and pulled out a little paper bag. Opening it carefully with his gloved fingers, the Englishman poured out a couple of little yellow drops into the palm of his hand. As Hans eyed them with a mixture of caution and curiosity, the soldier took one for himself, then popped it into his mouth, sucking on it exaggeratedly, then held out the bag. Hans politely followed suit. Sweet lemon flavor permeated his mouth, and he smiled in his pleasure. " _Danke!_ "

Gutermuth approached, curious as always about the enemy. The boy reminded Hans of a much beloved cat from his childhood: sticking his nose into everything to find out what was going on. The Englishman extended his bag of the candies again, and Guttermuth eagerly put his hand out to scoop up a piece.

" _Zitrone_ ," Hans told him, and Gutermuth popped the yellow candy in his mouth.

" _Danke!_ " the boy happily said to the Englishman, who grinned in return. "Ah, wait, I have something for you too," Gutermuth added, digging into his pocket and pulling out a small bag. He opened it to reveal nougat candies, which he held out to both the Englishman and Hans.

"You didn't mention these earlier when you wanted me to donate my gingerbread," Hans chided him.

The boy blushed. "They are my favorites," he mumbled. "But I am sharing them now!"

The Englishman listened to the exchange in bemusement, chewing on the nougat. " _It's good!_ " he said.

" _Good_ " must mean " _Gut_ ," Hans thought, given the soldier's reaction. It was odd how similar the languages were in so many respects.

The soldier slapped his chest. "Winterbottom," he proclaimed.

Hans nodded. Touching his own chest, he said, "Schultz," then pointed at his companion. "Gutermuth."

Another English soldier neared them, and Winterbottom hailed him. " _Oi, Pinfield! Let's show these Huns what Princess Mary sent us._ "

Pinfield gave his comrade a long look, and an exchange in English occurred between them that neither Schultz nor Gutermuth could follow. But Gutermuth held out his bag of nougats to Pinfield, who also cautiously took and tried it with Winterbottom's encouragement, responding with a smile as he chewed the nougat. Then he turned and left.

Hans, deciding the meeting must be over, also turned, but Winterbottom objected, laying his hand on Hans's arm. " _No, wait! We have something for you! It's what the king sent us to thank us for being soldiers. You ought to get some too_."

Schultz couldn't make head or tail of that, but Winterbottom seemed sincere about wanting them to stay. So they continued standing there. Hans tried to think of something to say. "London?" he tried, pointing at Winterbottom, who shook his head. "Canterbury," the Englishman replied, then asked, "Berlin?" pointing at Hans and Gutermuth. Hans shook his head. "Heidelberg," he answered, and Gutermuth said, "Dusseldorf."

Winterbottom pulled out his wallet and thumbed through its contents, pulling out three pictures. One was of a family, small against a large cathedral with two towers standing behind them. Two parents, a young man Hans guessed was Winterbottom himself without his mustache, and two boys, one about fifteen perhaps, and the other about twelve, plus a younger girl with long, fair hair. The other two were more formal: the first showed the same family in a photography studio, and the second showed a young woman with a lively expression, stylishly dressed, her head tilted and dipped coquettishly, her smile for the camera revealing a small dimple in her left cheek. Winterbottom named the family members as he showed off the second photo: " _Mother and Father, of course, and Edward and Noel and Nellie. And this one is Florence_." He stopped, then added softly, " _My wife. We married just a week before I had to leave for training. I've only seen her once since_."

Hans wasn't sure what all that meant—too many words and none that he recognized. Guttermuth looked equally confused. Winterbottom laughed and pulled off his left glove, tapping the ring on his finger, then the picture of the young woman.

"Ah!" Hans and Guttermuth both smiled. "She is very pretty," Hans said wistfully.

Guttermuth pulled out his own wallet, with the one picture that Schultz knew was in it, having seen it many times. "Mama," the boy said proudly, looking with great affection at the rather stout, middle-aged woman in a black dress, dark hair parted in a severe style that failed to hide the good nature that shone in her eyes and through the hint of a smile on her lips.

The word apparently needed no translation: Winterbottom's eyes lit up with understanding. " _Very sweet_."

Whatever the words meant, the tone sounded admiring. Hans felt a stab of gratitude that Winterbottom was kind in this way. It always bothered him to look at the picture knowing that Guttermuth, an only son, had left that gentle woman behind to join the army so young.

The English soldier turned to him and pointed. " _What about you? No photographs of your family or sweetheart?_ " he said with a smile.

Hans dug into his pocket for his own wallet, pulled out his one photograph of Mutti and Vater, seated stiffly in a studio with himself, Klara, and Otto standing behind them, all solemnly staring at the camera, and offered it to Winterbottom, who took it and sized it up judiciously as Hans pointed at them one by one and gave their names.

" _Sister? Brother?_ " he asked, pointing at Klara and Otto.

That had to mean the same as _schwester_ and _bruder_ , so Hans nodded.

" _No sweetheart yet, eh?_ " the English soldier grinned, winking at Hans, who wasn't quite sure what that meant but suspected he did—and that he was being teased a little. Well, it wasn't his fault that Berta wouldn't give him a picture before he left.

Just then, Pinfield, accompanied by several other comrades, climbed back over the lip of the trench. They each were carrying bundles in their hands. They approached and Hans saw they had brass metal cases, each elaborately engraved with the silhouette of a lady's head, surrounded by a wreath and flanked on each side with a large "M."

Pinfield and Winterbottom each opened one. " _These here are our Princess Mary boxes_ ," Winterbottom proclaimed. " _Have a smoke on King George. He's the Kaiser's cousin, so it's practically like getting them from your own government!_ "

Hans only picked out "Kaiser" in that speech, but Winterbottom's comrades seemed to think what he'd said was a good joke. But the offer of the cigarette was unmistakable—and quite welcome.

" _Virginisch?_ " he hazarded, accepting it. Surely the British were getting their tobacco from America.

Winterbottom conferred with his mates, then nodded. " _Aye, Virginian—straight cut_ ," he said, offering a light as well.

Hans drew in the smoke appreciatively. He should make a return, he thought, and dug for his own cigarettes, pulling his case out, opening it and offering them to Winterbottom and the other English. " _Türkisch!_ " he explained proudly.

That seemed to go over well too, as the others tried his cigarettes. Gutermuth wrinkled his nose—the boy hadn't learned to like cigarettes yet, an attitude Hans encouraged. Really, he was too young for them. Pinfield, noting the boy's distaste, turned back towards the trench and bellowed " _Winkle! Come on up, and bring your peppermints with you!_ "

Another soldier popped up above ground and approached. Hans had the impression that he was tremendously excited—also that he was not much older than Gutermuth, although taller and more heavily built. It seemed the English had boys who wanted to run away to war too. And Winkle was as apparently eager to meet Germans as Gutermuth had been to meet the English. He had a small bag with him, which Pinfield directed him to offer to the young German recruit.

" _Pfefferminze!_ " Gutermuth reported happily. "Better than cigarettes," he said loftily to Hans, sucking on his gift happily while offering the rest of the nougats to the newcomers.

Other men from the burial details approached, from both sides, and the group of soldiers from both armies grew larger. Cautiousness gradually relaxed into camaraderie. Men from both sides were pulling out photographs and trading smokes and sweets with each other, as Hans and Winterbottom had done. Hans spied Gutermuth and Winkle using wire cutters to cut buttons off each other's uniforms. He poked Winterbottom and gestured to show him as the boys swapped the buttons as mementoes, and the two men traded eye rolls and shook their heads together. Fromm would be unhappy about the state of Gutermuth's uniform tomorrow, and no doubt _Hauptmann_ Middleton would have something to say about Winkle's too, but Hans was loath to spoil the boys' fun and Winterbottom seemed to be of the same mind.

Suddenly, Gutermuth broke away from the group and ran back to their own side, lightly jumping across the shell holes as he dashed across. Probably going to see if Maurer would join them, Hans thought, suspecting the boy would be disappointed. Gutermuth disappeared into the trench, only to emerge a couple of minutes later with what Hans recognized as the young soldier's most prized possession, a worn football that they all sometimes kicked around the trench, or played with on rest days when rotated back from the front. Not surprisingly, he was alone. Maurer must have refused to join them.

Gutermuth headed the ball over to Winkler, who bounced it off his chest and then started scuffling the ball around. He and Gutermuth passed it between them a few times, then they were joined by a few others from each side. Shouts, genial challenges, and laughter rang out, both from the players and those watching. The ground was far too uneven and pocked to play a real game, but Hans was enjoying watching those having some fun with the ball.

A few shouts of "Oi!" drew his attention: a few of the Tommies were hauling something large and round out of the trench. For a moment Hans froze—was it a _shell?!_ —before realizing that it was entirely the wrong shape.

Winterbottom began to laugh and pulled him toward it. " _Oh, your lot should like this, Schultz!_ "

Hans blinked, unsure of what was going on but reassured by Winterbottom's amusement. It was a barrel of some kind . . . it had—a tap? Soldiers started handing out cups and mugs, holding them underneath to catch the liquid. Winterbottom yelled, " _Oi! Some for my pal Fritz here!_ "

Hans was puzzling over why Winterbottom suddenly seemed to think his name was Fritz, when one of the cups, dripping with foam, was shoved into his hands. Oh! " _Bier!_ " he exclaimed joyfully.

" _Yes, beer! The Major had some brought up for us for Christmas!_ " Winterbottom grinned.

" _Christmas_ " again—the beer must be part of the celebration for the English. It was generous of them to share, Hans thought. He held out the cup, looking Winterbottom in the eye. " _Prost!_ " he toasted happily, then drank a deep gulp, closing his eyes. It was good beer, deep and little bit smoky. He passed the cup back to Winterbottom.

"Cheers!" the Englishman responded in kind, likewise taking a large draft.

Gutermuth appeared at Hans's elbow, holding the ball, with young Winkle beside him. "Beer for us too?" the boy asked hopefully. Hans glanced at Winterbottom, who passed the cup to the young German soldier. Gutermuth took a swift swallow, then handed it on to Winkle, who finished the cup.

"You are tired of playing football?" Hans asked in surprise.

Gutermuth shrugged, clearly trying to contain disappointment. " _Leutnant_ Fromm and _Hauptmann_ Middleton said to stop. They don't want anyone stepping on an unexploded shell."

That certainly gave Hans pause, and he privately agreed with the officers that an accident of that sort was the last thing they needed on Christmas Day. Nonetheless he gave Gutermuth a light cuff on the cheek to show his sympathy for the youngster. He noticed an errant curl peeking out from under the boy's _pickelhaub_ near the back.

"Ach! You need a haircut," he chided. "You were supposed to do that before we were rotated back to the front."

Whatever response Gutermuth might have made was interrupted. " _Haare? Hair?_ " Winterbottom inquired, cocking his head to look at Gutermuth and pointing to his own helmet.

Hans laughed and mimed long hair on Gutermuth's head. The boy blushed bashfully as Winterbottom scrutinized him. " _Oi, Collins, here's another customer for you!_ " the English soldier called through the crowd. Another English soldier approached them. After another exchange Hans couldn't follow, other than the word " _hair_ " repeated several times, but which seemed to amuse both of the British soldiers, the newcomer headed back towards his trench. Schultz watched him go, puzzled but sure that he would be back.

The social gathering continued as beer was passed around again, and more food that had been brought out from both sides: tins of beef, biscuits, ham, cheese, black bread, another barrel of beer, even some schnapps was passed from soldier to soldier for a swig, no matter what the color of the uniform of the man drinking it.

After a bit Collins returned, brandishing hair clippers and gesturing to Gutermuth to take off his _pickelhaub_. Schultz began to laugh, as did Winterbottom.

Gutermuth's eyes went wide. "Schultz, does he mean what I think he means?"

" _Ja_ , I think so. And you should have had your hair cut before we came back to the front—you know that! So let's see what you look like with an English style haircut!"

Several of their fellow German soldiers had joined them, along with a few more English, all agreeing with Schultz. Gutermuth sighed and removed his helmet, prompting laughter and cheers from the group at large. "There's no chair," the boy exclaimed, clearly hoping to get out of the joke, but the others weren't going to let go of this novel entertainment.

"Just kneel down," suggested Schultz, putting his hand on the youngster's shoulder and pressing a bit. "The ground is frozen—you won't get much dirtier than you would playing football."

Gutermuth rolled his eyes but obeyed, looking up at the English barber. "You do a good job," he said, shaking his finger and lowering the tone of his voice, trying to sound more grown up. Winkle, who had been watching all the by-play, laughed but also pointed a cautionary finger at Collins.

Collins laughed—apparently the warning needed no translation. Despite all the joking from both sides, he applied the clippers carefully and, Hans saw, did a good job trimming the overlong hair on the boy's neck. Finished, he gave Gutermuth a pat on the shoulder and the boy jumped back to his feet, putting his hand to the back of his neck and head.

"Does it look all right? Really and truly, Schultz?"

Hans leaned over and made a proper show of examining the shorn hair. " _Ja_ , he has made a good job of it," he reassured the anxious boy. "You should thank him for it."

" _Danke schön_ ," Gutermuth said immediately, smiling broadly at Collins, clicking his heels and giving him a little bow.

" _You're welcome_ ," replied the Englishman, with an awkward little bow of his own, while Hans and Winterbottom traded grins.

Gutermuth put his _pickelhaub_ back on, situating it evenly and winning an approving smile from Hans.

Just then Bocker, another man from their unit, came over. " _Leutnant_ Fromm says we must go back to our trench," he said, rolling his eyes a bit and pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb.

Hans privately agreed with the eye roll, although he set a good example for Gutermuth and did not roll his own. Officers—even one as good as Fromm—seemed to put an end to good times altogether too soon and too often.

Winterbottom seemed to get the idea. He put his hand on Hans's shoulder. " _Wait, mate, I want to give you something to remember me by_." He searched his breast pockets and pulled out a card with two pictures on one side of it. " _Oi, Pinfield, do you have a bit of pencil about you?_ "

Hans watched as Pinfield turned out his pockets, looking up in satisfaction as he finally produced a stump of a pencil. Winterbottom took it, turned his comrade around to use his shoulder as a desk, and wrote something on the back of the card.

" _There, Schultz_ ," he said, handing the card to him. " _If you find yourself in England after the war some time, stop by and I'll give you proper ale at my local_."

Hans took the card. It had two portraits on the front—the King of England, George V, whom Hans recognized from newspaper pictures, and a woman, Queen Mary, no doubt. On the back was facsimile writing in English; who knew what it said? Winterbottom had written in the upper right corner: he could recognize his own name, Hans Schultz, then a message in English, then what looked like an address.

Winterbottom had told him where he lived.

Looking straight at the mustached English soldier, he shook his hand and said firmly, "I will come—some day—to Kant-ur-burg." He hoped the Englishman understood what he was saying. He wished he had something to write his own home address on . . . but he couldn't imagine Mutti welcoming an Englishman. It was probably better that he had nothing to write on.

Then came handshakes all around, himself and Gutermuth and Bocker with Pinfield and Collins and Winkle and some of the other men with whom they had broken bread and shared spirits. Hans knew now how to say " _Merry Christmas_ " to Winterbottom in English, so he did, and Winterbottom clapped him on the shoulder, blinking hard. Then the little knot of men split into two, each group heading the opposite way across No Man's Land, where they descended from the level of the earth into their trenches and disappeared from each other's view.

ooOoo

 _Author's Notes:_

Finding a spider's web on a Christmas tree is a traditional sign of luck in Germany, Poland, and Ukraine.

 _Prost_ : a common German toast, similar to the English "Cheers!"

 _Some notes on the Christmas Truce of 1914 (there will be a few more in the final chapter):_

I have based the incidents that Schultz experiences on eyewitness reports (usually quotations from letters and memoirs) in various historical sources. A number of veterans commented on the unusual silence on Christmas morning, without the reverberation of cannons and guns. Gathering the dead for burial was one of the reasons that men from both sides met in No Man's Land on that Christmas Day. In some cases, that evolved into camaraderie; in other cases the camaraderie began in other ways, with exchanges of shouted promises not to shoot, even in a few cases with one brave man getting out of his trench and walking over to the other side. Exchanging small gifts of food, drink, tobacco, and buttons was common among the men who met between the lines. Gutermuth's haircut from Pinfield has its roots in a documented case of an English barber giving a haircut to a German soldier. There was even a juggler who performed for both sides in one place, but that one seemed too hard to fit into my story's version of events.

Soccer/football games between the sides seem to have captured public imagination the most. There are various reports of such games, almost exclusively from British sources and many of them composed after the war. Current historians doubt that actual games were played—more likely make-shift balls (such as empty cans) were kicked around informally between soldiers of the two sides. The physical condition of No Man's Land, although not yet the terrible moonscape it became by the end of the next year, was too pockmarked with shell craters and unexploded ordinance to be really safe for a full game.

Finally, the governments on both sides sent boxes to their soldiers as Christmas gifts in 1914. The German soldiers received the _Kaiserliche_ (mentioned in my first chapter): a meerschaum pipe for the enlisted men and a box of cigars for NCOs and officers. British soldiers received Princess Mary boxes, which were funded as a charity headed by seventeen-year-old Princess Mary, Princess Royal. It consisted of a metal case, silver for officers and brass for enlisted men, engraved with the silhouette of the princess and other British imperial symbols. Inside, soldiers found sweets (chocolates, butterscotch, lemon drops), cigarettes and tobacco, a photograph and greeting from the Princess and a Christmas card from the King and Queen. Non-smoking British troops were given a packet of acid tablets, a khaki writing case containing pencil, paper and envelopes, and the cards. The dietary requirements of Indian troops were taken into account too; Sikhs, for example, received sugar candy, and a tin box of spices. Soldiers on both sides were sent treats from home—not just their families, but whole communities pitched in with gifts of food, warm clothes, and letters of thanks.

ooOoo

For those of you who celebrate the holiday, I wish you a Merry Christmas of 2017, and I hope for all of us that the coming year is a year of peace.


	3. Chapter 3: Christmas Evening and Coda

_Author's Note:_ Mention of very minor series character death.

ooOoo

 _Christmas Evening, 1914_

Maurer was waiting for them at the bottom of the trench, his rifle at the ready and aimed at the far trench until they had all climbed down. Skepticism seemed written all over his face—even more than usual, given his permanently narrowed eyes (the effect, Hans always thought, of gazing perpetually through a sniper's scope).

"You should have come! It was fun!" Gutermuth immediately told him.

" _Someone_ had to remain on guard," Maurer answered shortly. He was gazing at _Leutnant_ Fromm, who stiffened under the obvious implied critique.

"I was at school in England; I know these officers' code. Once _Hauptmann_ Middleton agreed to the truce, we were perfectly safe, Maurer."

"Even _if_ you are right about him, not all the men out there were such upstanding officers," Maurer spat back. "It wouldn't have taken much for them to take all of you out. Just one of them losing it over one of those bodies they brought back. I wouldn't have been able to stop them, but I could at least make sure they paid for it."

Winterbottom sprang immediately to Hans's mind. He couldn't see the man doing any such thing as Maurer was suggesting.

Almost as if he could read Hans's mind, Maurer turned on him.

"And you, Schultz? The boy of course wants everyone to be his friend, and our _leutnant_ here is so much an idealist that he overlooks danger to himself and us, but you promised to look out for them."

"And I did," Hans replied, stung. "There was no danger. Just men, like us, gathering the dead."

" _Nein_. Not men, not like us. Do not forget, that was the _enemy_. Perhaps your truce will hold for the rest of today. Tomorrow, though, they will shoot us. And we will shoot them. Do not forget that they shot Dohman and killed Hartmann."

"Enough. We do not forget our comrades." _Leutnant_ Fromm spoke with severity. "Gutermuth, I have a message to send to _Haupmann_ Leitz, and you will run it to him for me. Maurer, since you are so keen on keeping an eye on the English, you can remain on watch. Schultz, come with me."

Fromm led Gutermuth and Schultz through the trench, past two zigzags, and down into the dugout. He turned on the light, and Schultz inwardly blessed yet again the recent installation of electricity in their bunker, which made life in the trenches so much easier. Fromm strode over to the stacked wooden boxes that served as a rough desk, picking up a pen and scratching out a message, while Schultz and Gutermuth sank down onto the bunks that generally doubled as seats. A few minutes later, Fromm sealed the message and handed it over to Gutermuth. "Give this to _Haupmann_ Leitz, back in the company HQ dugout," he instructed. "And get yourself some dinner there—they will have something hot."

Gutermuth saluted and obediently departed, leaving Fromm and Hans alone. Fromm took off his _pickelhaub_ , ran his hand through his close-clipped hair, and then replaced the helmet on his head with a sigh. From several months' acquaintance with the young officer, Hans knew this meant he was agitated.

"Maurer was right," Fromm muttered.

" _Nein_ ," Hans answered, shaking his head slowly. "You were right to make the truce, to bring the boys home to rest. To honor Christmas Day."

Fromm looked at him, hard. "I cannot think just of today. I have to think of tomorrow and the next day. Schultz, will you be able to shoot—to kill the soldier whose hand you were shaking so hard half an hour ago?"

Hans lowered his eyes. No. He could not imagine shooting Winterbottom, whose home address he carried in pocket, nor Pinfield, nor the other men he had broken bread and shared a cup with.

Fromm exhaled, a long breath. "I thought not. So I have requested _Haupmann_ Leitz that he transfer our unit to elsewhere on the front. I take full responsibility for my choices this day, and the results of the camaraderie we experienced. HQ will not be pleased, but they will move us." He lit a cigarette and passed it to Schultz, who sucked on it gratefully while Fromm lit another for himself. "There is a long war still ahead of us. At least we will not be fighting those we have met."

For a few moments they smoked in silence.

"How long a war?" Hans asked finally.

Fromm shook his head. "We are dug in on both sides, with no easy way to move forward or take ground on either side. This war will take forever, and bleed us both dry." He paused and sighed. "We are all Cain and Abel, killing and being killed by our brothers. I would not blame God for averting his face from us all."

Fromm was so educated, thought Hans, to understand the war in these ways, even to think in biblical terms. Educated—and he spoke English. Balancing his still-lit cigarette on the edge of the box, Hans groped in his pocket and pulled out the card that Winterbottom had given him. "Could you read this to me, sir? The English soldier, Winterbottom, gave it to me."

Fromm took it, looking first at the pictures of the English king and queen, then turning it over and silently reading the message on the back.

"The handwritten part is directed to you. 'For my German friend, Schultz. Come see me when the war is over.' Then there is an address in Canterbury. 'Charles Winterbottom, 12 St. Mary's Street.'"

"And the other facsimile writing?" Hans asked.

"It is a greeting from the English king. 'With our best wishes for Christmas 1914. May God protect you and bring you home safe.' It is signed by the English queen, Mary, and the king, George." He looked up at Schultz. "Winterbottom gave you this?"

" _Ja_." Another moment of silence lay between them before Hans added, "He knew what he was wishing for me, giving me this. And I hope it for him too."

"I wish it for us all too," Fromm answered, leaning back against the timbered wall of the dugout. "But Schultz, we will be very fortunate if we pull through without suffering Hartman's fate—or Dohman's."

" _Ja_ , I know," Hans nodded. "Any of us who walk away whole from this war, in body and spirit, will be lucky."

ooOoo

 _April, 1946_

Hans Schultz, finally no longer a member of either the Imperial German Army or the Third Reich's _Wehrmacht_ , stood on a side street of Canterbury, a few streets away from the famous cathedral. He was looking at a small brick row house, trying to gather courage to knock on the door.

Over thirty-one years earlier, a man who had lived at this address had given him a small card as a Christmas memento. Schultz had promised to come see him after the war was over. There had been no chance of coming after that war—no money for necessities, let alone travel, and no desire to come either, not after Schultz and his comrades had been through another three years of killing and maiming and gassing and . . . . Well, all that was best forgot, even if it remained indelibly engraved on his memory.

And since then another war, even worse in its toll on the world, had come and gone. Schultz had been fortunate to spend that war in a relative backwater, in terms of German frontline action—although he had certainly been up to his neck in hot water with all of Colonel Hogan's various schemes in Stalag 13. But he had survived that war too, and now, thanks to the efforts of Colonel Hogan (now a general), he was free to leave war-torn Germany for a new life in the United States.

But Schultz had chosen to travel to England on the way, stopping to visit Peter Newkirk in London with the idea of asking his advice about a promise given to another Englishman over three decades earlier, and whether it made sense at this time to fulfill it.

"Eh, that's a right tough question, Schultzie," Newkirk had said after listening to the tale while they were deep into a pint at a pub—not Newkirk's usual local, however: no German friend would be welcome in an area that had suffered so much bombing in the Blitz.

"You'll have the same problem in Canterbury," Newkirk had also pointed out. "The Baedeker Blitz hit them hard there." After a pause, he'd added awkwardly, "Although I guess you know as much as anyone how hard bombing on civilians can be."

Schultz nodded. He was leaving for America in part because he was now a widower. Gretchen had been killed during the last RAF raid on Cologne in early March of 1945. She and their two youngest children had been visiting her sister then, following the death of her brother-in-law. The three oldest Schultz children, grown now, had agreed their father should go to America, and they would join him there in the future. Hogan had recommended Milwaukee or St. Louis, based on their German populations, but Schultz himself rather fancied California. He'd had two wars' worth of being soaked in rain and mud, more than enough for two lifetimes, and he felt a bone-deep desire for sunshine.

He would decide all that later, though. First he had to get through this meeting.

Newkirk's final piece of advice hung in Schultz's mind: "If you've been haunted by this for thirty years, Schultz, it's time to do something about it. You'll not stop thinking about it if you don't try."

So Schultz had come to Canterbury. The sight of the bomb damage to the city, so reminiscent of so much of Germany, made him wish to weep. At least the beautiful cathedral he remembered from Winterbottom's family photograph had not been damaged. He had visited it first—for courage perhaps? He did not really know the English Saint Thomas that the Anglican cathedral was dedicated to, but he thought as he lit a votive candle that surely one saint wouldn't mind a prayer invoking another, and St. Jude seemed more fitting.

So now he stood on St. Mary's Street, staring at the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ancient card, no longer crisp but soft and almost like cloth from its long preservation in Schultz's wallet through all the years. He looked first at the long-dead king and still living queen dowager and their message of safety for all serving English soldiers—which he could now read for himself. And then he ran his fingers once again over the faded pencil writing that gave the address of the house in front of which he now stood.

Perhaps Winterbottom had died in the first war. Even perhaps in the second, although it was less likely he had served in it. Or perhaps he had suffered mutilation on the battlefield. Certainly, he had seen his comrades die at the hands of those in Schultz's army, just as Schultz had seen his own die at the hands of the British and French, and later the Americans. Winterbottom might have survived the war, but it was very likely that his good wishes for Schulz had not.

He would never know if he didn't walk forward and knock on the door.

So he did.

After a moment, a man opened the door. He was about Schultz's own age, with a small frame, only slightly thickened with age. No mustache now, and hair that had gone as softly silver-white as Schultz's own.

It was Winterbottom—Schultz was sure of it. He looked puzzled, clearly not recognizing Schultz—and no wonder, given the years and pounds added to Schultz's big frame (still substantial, if down from his high point at Stalag 13 because of the lean year behind him). And of course Winterbottom had no reason to expect Schultz—not today or any day, especially given the geographical and mental distance from their brief meeting so many years ago.

"Hello," Schultz said, trying a slight smile. He held out the card to Winterbottom, who took it and stared at it as Schultz added, "We met on Christmas Day of 1914, in No Man's Land. You gave me this, and I promised to come to Canterbury after the war. It . . . it took me a long time. And I understand if you do not want me here now. I will go away right now if you want. I am on my way to America, but I wanted to keep my promise to you first."

Winterbottom's eyes narrowed—not, Schultz thought, with anger, but in an effort to recall. "Schultz?" he asked. "Your name was Schultz, right?"

"Yes, I am Schultz." He held his breath.

Winterbottom looked at him for a long moment, and silence loaded with years of memory stretched between them.

Finally, Winterbottom offered his hand, bridging the gulf between past and present, and they shook hands firmly, just as they had that Christmas Day.

"I believe I promised you a drink at my local," Winterbottom said, "but I'm not sure that's a good idea these days. I have some bottles of good local ale in my kitchen, though, if you'd like to share them."

Schultz smiled broadly. "Thank you. Yes, I would." With a deep sigh of relief, he stepped over the threshold and into the house of the man who was no longer an enemy. Finally, after all these years, they could drink and talk together in peace.

 _Fin_

 _Author's Notes_ :

The Christmas Truce of 1914, on which I have based this story, has gained fame in recent years. It happened spontaneously and piecemeal in a number of places along the western front where cold and miserable young men on both sides momentarily put aside the national grievances that had brought them into the conflict. In some places, the truce held through another day or two—or at least much less trading of weapons fire occurred. Truces did not occur everywhere: at least one German and two British soldiers were killed in combat that Christmas Day and some 250 others died, most from previous wounds. The fraternization was generally disapproved by higher ranking officers for the reasons that Fromm explains and Schultz understands instinctively: it is far more difficult for soldiers to kill human beings whom they know. For this reason, soldiers who had been at the front on that Christmas Day were frequently reassigned to other parts of the line when they were rotated out for a rest period. Not all the men on the front at the time approved of the camaraderie, either: Adolf Hitler, in particular, criticized it harshly.

Christmas truces seldom occurred in the later years of the war. A few sporadic localized truces occurred in 1915, reflecting a live-and-let-live attitude among the soldiers, but Allied Headquarters had issued specific orders against fraternization. By 1916 most soldiers were no longer interested after so many more of their comrades had died, horrendous new weapons (gas, flamethrowers, etc.) had been used against them, and civilians at home had died in Zeppelin bombings and in attacks on ships like the _Lusitania_. In other words, the soldiers of 1914 hadn't yet learned to hate each other as they did later. Thus, the 1914 Christmas truce represents a short and very temporary space of possible fraternization that was ruthlessly quashed in later years: a romantic mythologizing of the possibility of peace in the midst of war.

 _Baedecker Blitz_ : After the Blitz failed to bring Britain to surrender in 1940-41, German bombing resources were diverted to the new Russian front. When the RAF bombed the German city of Lübeck in 1942, damaging its historic center and three of its main churches, the Luftwaffe retaliated by bombing English cities with historic and cultural value rather than military significance. These were nicknamed (by both sides) "the Baedecker Blitz," because the targeted towns (York, Norwich, Canterbury, Bath, and Exeter) were popular tourist destinations starred in the Baedecker series of travel guides.

St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.

ooOoo

I wanted to write a story in which people who felt they could not talk with others whose beliefs differed radically from theirs managed to do so, for peace grows in such small steps. I wish all my readers both peace and joy for the New Year!


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